


Heart Issues

by Zoeleo



Series: Rara Avis [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homecoming, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd is Not Robin, Medicine, Or Bruce adopts Jason but doesn't make him Robin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: Jason has... adjusted. Living far from Gotham and the vigilante lifestyle he's finally making it on his own when he gets a call that drags him back for the one person he can't leave in the past.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd
Series: Rara Avis [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/575182
Comments: 140
Kudos: 358
Collections: Finished111





	1. Angina

**Author's Note:**

> You will notice there is a massive time skip in the Rare Avis series here, Jason's in his twenties and living on his own away from Gotham. I'm sure you have lots of questions about how and why he wound up here. I never intended to write this one now, I was trying my best to move chronologically. But well, I guess this is a bit of a coping mechanism for me right now as I go through this with my dad. I know not everyone has had great experiences with parents and fathers and I'm so sorry for that, but damn is it hard having to face the reality of someone you love growing old and what that means. So, my apologies if this is not the most coherent. Love you all.

Matilda reaches over the counter to give Florence her customary dog biscuit before waving them goodbye. Jason smiles and adds a few bills to the tip jar before picking up the paper bag and cup with the intent of finding a shady bench overlooking the river to enjoy his breakfast. Both hands occupied, he shoulders through the door, the bells hanging from it jingling in his wake. The morning air is still fresh and cool on his face. It won’t last long. By midday the heat will be punishing. Gotham was never this hot.

He almost laughs at the thought, at the very notion that there would be something about that cesspit of a city worth missing. He settles on a bench between two crepe myrtles with Florence at his feet and pulls a pastry out of the bag. The laugh dies on his lips. The crust is flaky and toasted a perfect golden brown, prosciutto and fontina peeking out at the edges. It looks and smells perfect, but he knows even before he takes a bite that will still be just a close imitation of the one in his memories.

 _Standing on a step stool just to see over the counter –Christ, he_ _’d been so_ small _back then- watching those skilled hands fold the pastry over itself while he clumsily tried to copy them. He_ _’d been obsessed, asking the butler to make him the_ _‘fancy grilled cheese,_ _’ every day for months once he_ _’d realized he wouldn_ _’t be punished for making the request._

He opts to take a sip of his tea instead, but even that’s tainted with recollections of a past life. It would be so much easier if he could just bring himself to actually like coffee. His phone buzzes in his pocket and his fingers clench automatically, crumpling the paper cup and sending a wave of hot tea over the edge. He swears and sets the cup down on the seat beside him, twisting his hip to dig his phone out.

He glares at the area code of the number on screen, finger automatically moving to block it. Bruce and Dick had called yesterday afternoon. He let both ring through to voicemail. They really should know better by now, but it didn’t seem to stop them trying every few months. Dick was especially persistent and Jason wouldn’t put it past him to try calling from an unknown number. Except, he realizes it’s not completely unknown to him. It’s the number for the Gotham public library; he used to volunteer there when he was in high school.

His face smoothes out from its angry sneer as he puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he asks hesitantly, wondering who would be trying to get in touch with him from there. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any outstanding fines. Or loans. How much would he even owe in late fees if he forgot to return a book for four years?

There’s scrambling on the other end and a hissed, “ _I told you he_ _’d answer,_ _”_ in the background. Jason rolls his eyes and almost ends the call right there, but a frantic feminine, “ _Jason, please don_ _’t hang up! It_ _’s important,_ _”_ stops him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and forces a deep breath. His voice is steady when he speaks, and he’s glad for at least that little mercy. “Barbara? Is that you?”

“ _Yeah, Jason. It_ _’s me._ ”

“And let me guess, Timmy’s there with you?”

There’s an anxious pause before she reluctantly answers, “ _Yes. He_ _’s here too._ _”_

“And why exactly should I listen to you, Barbie? What’s so damn important that you can’t leave me be?” An old familiar rage bubbles up to the surface, lacing his words with a growl. Rage and hurt. He swallows and rubs his thigh convulsively, feeling at the seam where prosthetic meets flesh through the cloth of his pants. He jerks his fingers away when he realizes what he’s doing and buries them in Florence’s fur instead. “I swear, if one of them put you up to this, you can tell them to go fu—“

“ _It_ _’s Alfred!_ ”

When he was a sophomore, he’d been joking with the second baseman at practice, not paying attention to the mound, when a fastball caught him right in the temple. He’d woken up three minutes later flat on his back, breathless, staring blindly at the sky. This feels like that.

“Wha—What’s wrong?” he asks and he can’t help the panic swells through him, pitching his voice high and thready. Florence whines and gently lays her head on his lap, the feel of her warm tongue lapping gently at his fingers is the only thing that grounds him as Barbara fills him in.

“ _We think he was working in the garden before starting on dinner when he collapsed. Damian found him there and called Bruce. They took him to the ER at Gotham Mercy and they ran a bunch of tests_.”

“And?”

“ _We_ _’re waiting on the results_.”

“That… that’s it?”

“ _They confirmed that it had something to do with his heart, this morning they_ _’re trying to determine if it was damaged and if so, where and how much._ _”_

“And the doctors, do they—What do they think?”

Barbara sighs, “ _Dr. Ontoveros says coronary artery disease is the most likely culprit, which they_ _’d want to do a bypass for but it could also be valvular. We should know by this afternoon. Either way, he_ _’ll probably need surgery. I thought_ _… I thought you would want to know._ _”_

He’s supposed to say thank you. He knows he should, but he keeps staring at Florence’s dark wet nose as it snuffles concernedly at his hand. He can hear the whisper of Barbara breathing over the phone and the rustle of two squirrels chasing each other through the treetops and the faint rush of traffic in the distance.

“ _Jason?_ ”

“Hm? Oh. I…”

“ _Look, I know it_ _’s a lot to ask, but_ _… I understand if you don_ _’t want to see the rest of us. But Alfred_ _…”_ there’s a painful choked noise that makes him wince, “ _He misses you so much. It would mean a lot to him if you were here. Please come home._ _”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred time next chapter, I promise!

Tim offers to pick him up in the Bat-Plane ( _or whatever dumbass name they call it by);_ it's the quickest option to get him there. He declines. He's not ready for that yet. It's been four years since he left Gotham, five since the _incident_ , and he still doesn't know how to deal with that mindfuck. It's the one thing he can't really bring up in therapy. He isn't optimistic that confronting it so blatantly as to hitch a ride in one of their obscenely illegal paramilitary tech fests will go well. Or that he'll be able to face Tim without taking a swing.

But when he checks the local airport's schedule and sees that the next outbound flight for Gotham isn't until the following afternoon, he's forced to accept Tim's second offer of a private jet. Going through TSA with a prosthesis is a special hell of its own and he's not so proud to pass the opportunity to skip it. He calls work on the way back to his apartment to let them know he won't be coming that morning or the rest of the week, then starts packing; a bag for himself, and one for Florence. He used to travel lighter, but ironically loosing a leg doesn't lighten the load. He ticks down through his mental list: baby powder, antibiotic ointments, wipes, extra liners. Check.

He makes a quick trip across the hall to ask his neighbor, Jade, if she could water his plants and feed his fish while he's gone. He's oddly anxious about leaving them behind. He'd scoffed when his therapist initially suggested it. _You said you enjoyed working with your grandfather in the garden, is that something you have an interest in on your own? Helping other things grow is often a good way for us to shake free of stagnancy and grow ourselves. Consider starting small, maybe a houseplant?_

His first had been a small cactus on discount from the flower kiosk of the grocery store he frequented. He'd tossed it into his cart apathetically and set it in the windowsill of his bedroom without much expectation. It didn't really grow much. But it didn't die either. And then one day he came home from work, and there was the barest beginnings of a bud at its crown. Every day after that he eagerly checked its progress, something in his heart lightening at the bright red bloom. 

More plants snuck their way in after that, mysteriously finding their way onto his shelves and windowsills. Succulents and pothos at first (things that were hard to kill), and then came the fish. It felt good to take care of something and watch it thrive (Florence didn't count since she took care of him more than the other way round). 

Jade agrees and he hands over his spare key to her with thanks, then sighs and thumbs at the strap of his backpack. He heads for the elevator with Florence at his side. Usually he takes the stairs, partly for exercise and partly to prove he still can, but he has the feeling today is going to be harrowing enough without straining his leg as well. 

"Ready, girl?" he asks Florence as they descend. She stares back up at him soulfully. "Alright, let's go."

The elevator doors slide open with a ding and it's only a dozen short steps through the lobby before they're back in the oppressive heat of a southern summer. He blinks at the sun's glare and again in surprise. He'd planned on taking his truck to the airport and parking it in the economy lot, but apparently other arrangements had been made. 

"Mr. Wayne," a man dressed in a smart black suit calls to him from the sidewalk, opening the door of a shiny black Lincoln.

"Uh. Yeah, that's uh. That's me."

"Good morning Mr. Wayne, my name is Adam. I'll be driving you to your flight today, courtesy of Mr. Timothy Drake."

"Oh. Okay. Gotcha. Thanks, I guess?" he trips over the words, thrown by the change in plans and not entirely pleased. It takes him a second to relinquish the bags in his hands when Adam tries to take them from him. "I hope we didn't keep you waiting too long. Wasn't expecting a lift."

"You're welcome, Mr. Wayne. And not at all!" the driver answers chipper as he stows their luggage in the trunk.

"It's just Jason, please. Or Mr. Todd, I'd rather not be..."

"As you like, Mr. Todd. Please let me know if you have any other preferences. There are refreshments in the back you are welcome to if you'd like," Adam continues on breezily.

Jason settles awkwardly into the deep leather seats. He runs his hands over the smooth supple material. He'd almost forgotten what this kind of luxury felt like. He'd dipped into his trust fund to pay for the deposit and first month of rent and groceries when he moved out, until he found a job, then to help with the down payment on the truck, but otherwise he hadn't touched it. Using made him uncomfortable, made him feel as if he still owed Bruce something.

Florence tries to jump up with him, but he stops her with a firm _'no.'_ If they were in his truck he'd let her sit next to him in the passenger side seat, nose pressed to the glass, but he has a feeling Adam wouldn't appreciate the snotty window artwork as much - or her tearing up the expensive upholstery with her paws. She grumbles but obeys, laying down on the floorboard instead. 

It simultaneously feels like forever and no time at all before they arrive at the runway for small private charters. They're the only passengers on board, which isn't a surprise but he's still grateful. It means he can get up and walk the aisle every few minutes to ward off the threat of any blood clots forming in his leg without bothering anyone. And that he doesn't have an audience as he freaks out.

His concern for Alfred wars with his reluctance to see the rest of the family. He spends most the flight carefully articulating arguments for hypothetical scenarios until Florence licks at his fingers, her cold wet muzzle snapping him out of it. He leans his head back against the ergonomic first class seat and steadies his breathing. He scratches her behind the ears and outlines a simple plan: land, he predicts there will be another smartly clad chauffeur waiting for him at the airport to take him to the hospital so he doesn't need to worry about transportation, check in at the hospital, visit with Alfred, talk with Alfred's doctor, rent a room at a nearby hotel, then spend the next few days seeing what needs to be done for the old man's care upon his release. Then, after he successfully accomplishes all of that whilst avoiding everyone else, he'll book a flight home. Easy. He can do this.

***

He can't do this. He can't. He is standing outside the front doors of the hospital and his foot is rooted to the cement. The glass is silvered but when clouds scud across the hazy Gotham sun casting shadows on the doors, he catches glimpses of red hair, blue eyes, and black suits through the reflection. He's contemplating running back to the car and begging the driver to drop him off at the nearest bar instead when the doors swing open. His pulse spikes the falls back into a stuttering rhythm when Barbara rolls out. Just Barbara.

She's not completely innocent in this whole situation, but she wasn't _family_ , the betrayal didn't cut as deep. She was also the only one who really understood what it was like, waking up in the hospital and being told life would never be the same again, that it, _he'd_ , been fundamentally altered in a way that could never be fixed. She'd stuck by his side through it all; the screaming cursing tantrums, and the ensuing break downs. Florence had been her idea.

She approaches with a calm sedateness that he envies, even if it's only a mask. Her knuckles are white where they grasp the wheels of her chair. Florence whines. He gives her a nod and she trots over to Barbara eagerly. Barbara grins and scrubs her hands through the fur of Florence's ruff.

"Hi, girl! How are you? Have you been taking good care of my boy? You have, haven't you! Such a good girl, doing such a good job!" she coos, then she turns her attention to him and her voice drops several octaves, "Jason. I'm really glad you came. Thank you."

"Hey Barbie."

He pats his thigh and Florence accepts one last kiss from her adoring fan before running back to him, ears perked and lips peeled in a happy doggy grin.

"I told them to stay inside," she explains with a jerk of her chin over her shoulder. "Figured you might bolt if they all ran out to meet you." Her eyes flash knowingly.

"Yeah," he swallows. "Fair bet. I'd rather not do that whole song and dance. I'm here for Alfred, that's it."

She nods. "I know. But they can't help but want to see you. Maybe this could be a good thing, maybe this could be a chance to—" 

"No," he cuts her off, shaking his head so hard it hurts. "Barbie, I can't... I can't. I just want to see Alfie and make sure he's okay. I can't handle trying to deal with them on top of that."

Barbie frowns, wrinkles forming between her brows over the rims of her glasses. "Okay," she relinquishes, hold her hands up in surrender. "He's in room 547. I can't promise one of them won't try to ambush you later, but I'll do my best to convince them to give and Alfred some alone time."

"Thank you, Barbie."

"There's a staff door on the East Wing that someone accidentally left cracked." She points subtly around the corner of the building, blocking the gesture with her body. "Must have been a nurse on their smoke break or something." 

He snorts and fights a smile. "Yeah, someone should tell them smoking causes cancer. I think I heard that once somewhere. Thank you," he repeats.

"Hey, it was really good seeing you, Jason. I've missed you," she calls out after him.

"Same here, Barbie. Same here," he says, and he means it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just keeps growing? Realized it was going to need a chapter 4, otherwise this chapter would be like 20 pages. Also! My pops came out of surgery today! So far so good! Yay! It's a lot of talking heads this round, but still came out pretty good I think.

547\. He stares at the numbers on the door trying to work up the courage to enter. There's a glass pane set in the center of the door, but from this angle he can't see the occupant inside, only the footrail of the bed and the window on the opposite wall. Florence noses at his hip. He lets out a breath.

"Sorry, girl. I'm alright. I'm just..."

He pats her gently and steels himself. The door swings open easily on silent well-greased hinges, but nothing escapes the attention of the old man in the bed.

"Mas—Master Jason?"

"Alfred," he can barely choke the word out, throat gluing shut with emotion.

He outgrew the butler by age seventeen, but Alfred has never looked small to him before, not like he does now - frail and wan and propped up with pillows. This is the first time he's ever seen the man's arms before. Even on those rare occasions Alfred ditched the suit for summer gardening or beach vacations, he wore long pants and sleeves. His arms are thin, draped with translucent papery skin. An IV runs from his left arm and the other is wrapped in a soft cast. Wires crawl out from under the collar of his gown to a nearby monitor. There's a bruise on his forehead not quite covered by the bandage there.

"I'm so sorry. I came as soon as I heard. How are you feeling?"

Jason nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to Alfred's side. Florence's nails click on the linoleum tile floor behind him. 

"Hale and hearty, my dear boy. If they'd just let me return home for a nice cuppa I'd be right as rain. This has all been blown rather out of proportion," Alfred dismisses his concern with a trivial wave.

"Out of—out of proportion?" Jason laughs, because if he doesn't laugh he'll cry and there's already heat pricking behind his eyes. "They said Damian found you unconscious in the garden!"

He ignores Alfred's blustering denial and swoops down to fold the man into a gentle hug. Alfred stiffens for a second, then eases into the embrace. He pats Jason on the back and croons.

"Oh my boy. It looks worse than it is. A sprained wrist and a bump on the noggin."

"And the heart's got nothing to do with it, huh?" Jason sniffs and pulls back, wiping his face dry on the inside of his arm.

"Really, it's just an atrial flutter. Very common, nothing to worry about. If not for the fall, I would have already been released," Alfred scoffs. Jason keeps his doubts to himself. He'll hunt the doctor or attending nurse down later to get the full story. "Anyways," the butler continues, "I'd much rather hear about how you are doing. It's been so long, I'm sure there's much I need to filled in on."

He gestures enthusiastically to the chair in the corner for visitors. Jason obeys the unspoken command and pulls it as close to the bedside as he can and still make room for Florence between his knees. Alfred holds his hand out to her and lets her scent his fingers before scrubbing at the skin around her jowls.

"And Mistress Florence, it's good to see you again as well. I'm sorry I don't have any treats for you at the moment, but don't worry as soon as I am returned home, I'll whip up a batch for you."

"Oh, Alf. You don't need to do that, really. When you get out of here you need to focus on taking it easy, not feeding this lard tub. She gets too many treats as is. Between Matilda, Yolanda, and you she's not going to fit into her vest for much longer!"

"Matilda? Yolanda?" Alfred raises an eyebrow. "And who are these ladies that are so familiar with you and Miss Florence, hm? Anyone I will have the honor of meeting?"

"What? No! No, Yolanda is my therapist and Matilda is the barista at the cafe down the block!" he sputters. 

"And being a barista and a lady friend are mutually exclusive positions?" Alfred teases.

"No. Alf. Matilda's cute but... I don't know, too many piercings for me? And I'm pretty sure her girlfriend might take issue with us dating."

"So there's no one in the picture then? No bonnie lass or lad?"

Jason can't help himself. He tips his head back and laughs. "No! Geez, Alfred! What is this? If I knew you were going to be interrogating me about my love life I would have just sent a card."

Alfred sighs dramatically, "Alas, alack! Here I am on my deathbed and all I want is to see one of my boys married off and happy! I've never had the chance to plan a wedding yet."

"Stop it!" Jason's sniggers end in a snort. "You goddamn thespian. You're not on your deathbed and this is not an Austen novel. And I am happy," he says. "No really, I am. Florence does a good job taking care of me so you don't have to worry. Yeah, it would be nice to meet someone someday, but til then I have a great job and a nice apartment I get to call home. I uh, even have some pretty good friends. There's this sports club kind of thing for guys—well, people like me. Amputees, paraplegics. We get together and go bowling and play basketball and that kind of thing. Went kayaking a few weeks ago, it was beautiful."

Alfred's expression perks up. "Any baseball?"

"Eh. Not yet. Baseball's not as big down there as it is here. But there's two guys, Mac and Cody, who are interested in trying to put together something soon."

"Well that sounds wonderful. And what is this new job? I don't believe you told me you had made a career change."

It's phrased politely but Jason still winces at the pointed reminder of how long and how completely he'd cut himself off. 

"Oh god, I _hated_ the call center," he groans, wrinkling his nose at the memory. Dull gray carpet, dull gray walls, dull gray cubicle screens under harsh fluorescent lights. Corporate purgatory at its worst. It had been harder than he thought to find an entry-level job without the Wayne name to back him. He'd hoped to land a position in a bookstore somewhere after all his time volunteering at the Gotham Public Library, but retail managers weren't keen on someone who couldn't stand for eight hours or lift fifty pounds. He's come a long way since then.

"It paid the bills. And being able to work nights was convenient so I could work around my class schedule, but oh man did it suck. Yeah, I left there not quite two years ago? I work for this non-profit called Urban Oases now. There was a lot behind my apartment block that got turned into a community garden. I used to see people working in it when I took Florence for walks. One day I asked what they were planting and they were really cool about it. Mostly other college students. I started volunteering on weekends. Mostly just watering things or propagating seedlings in the greenhouse since I can't really be on my knees for too long. Well, I got to be pretty good friends with the volunteer coordinator, Kevin, and he told me there was a position coming available in the organization and that he'd put in a good word for me if I applied. And uh, I guess they liked me." He shrugs. 

"And what do you do for them? Should I call Mister Kent and let him know you're a farmer now?"

Jason snorts. "Ha, no. I uh—so Urban Oases, our goal is to provide access to healthy food in food deserts and educate people on how food is grown and where it comes from. I canvas the city and identify which areas would benefit from a garden the most and look for potential new plots. I also reach out to a lot of local restaurants and corner markets to partner with them. Anyway. Yeah. So... that's what I do," he finishes lamely.

He keeps his gaze down, bouncing from his knees to the floor to Florence. It's not what he thought he'd be doing, that's for sure. At this point he was supposed to be elbows deep in the medical program at Gotham U, following in Thomas Wayne's footsteps and making Bruce proud. Everyone respects a doctor, even one that used to be a street rat. But it's hard to do that when just the sight of blood sends him into a panic attack now.

Alfred doesn't say anything. The silence sets his teeth on edge. He fiddles with the collar of Florence's vest. He believes in what he does, but it's hard not to feel _lesser_ in this fucked up tribe of actual goddamn heroes and certified geniuses. His startles at a hitched breath, eyes shooting up.

"Alfred?"

The old man has one hand raised, hiding his face.

"Alfred?" He leans forward in growing concern. Is he _crying?_

"I am just... so _proud_ of you. After everything you've gone through and seeing the worst of what people can do, and you're still determined to help others. I—We did wrong by you, my boy. _I_ did wrong by you. And I am so sorry."

Jason doesn't know what to do. He's never seen Alfred cry before. His chest feels tight and he can't get a deep breath in.

"We meant it for the best, but still... It was wrong. Can you ever forgive, my boy?"

Florence shifts and he realizes he's twisted his fingers tight into her fur. He forces himself to let go so she can turn and face him, head arrowed into his lap.

"I'm sorry, girl. I'm sorry," he whispers, stroking up the line of her nose and over her brow ridges. He stares deep into her brown eyes. "I—I don't know. You lied to me. You all lied to me, and it almost got me killed," his voice cracks. _It did kill someone_. His vision blurs. "I want to, Alf. I want to forgive you. But I'm... I'm not ready to forgive the all of you yet."

Something nudges his hand. It's warm and dry; not the familiar wet cold of Florence's nose. Alfred curls his fingers around Jason's.

"Thank you," Alfred murmurs, "I hope one day... But that is enough for now."

Jason lifts his head. His lips tremble as he tries to force them up into a smile. They grip onto each other, crying like a pair of dumbasses, when the door opens and a woman in scrubs strides in.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Your heart rate was elevated," she explains in embarrassment. "Is everything okay? Are you alright Mr. Pennyworth?"

Alfred shifts, sitting up straighter amongst the pillows and dabs at his face with the blanket. Jason sucks in a hiccuping breath.

"I am quite fine, Miss Jenny. Excuse us, we were just having an emotional moment. This handsome young man is my grandson, who I've not seen in several years," he replies steadily. Warmth uncoils under Jason's breastbone at the easy introduction. "He has taken time out of his very busy schedule trying to solve world hunger to come visit me. And he has just insured that he is still a bachelor," Alfred confides with a wink.

The warmth rushes abruptly from his chest to his face.

"Oh my god, Alf! _Why?"_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who have left kudos & comments & well-wishes.

"It's called an atrial flutter," Dr. Ontoveros explains. "The top chambers of his heart are beating faster than the bottom chambers, causing an arrhythmia. The cardiac angiography didn't show any blockages, so it's likely that the electric signals telling the muscles to contract are misfiring. Performing an electrical cardioversion is the next step."

Jason isn't surprised the culprit isn't a blockage. Despite his age, Alfred has always been active. Shuttling them all around and taking care of an estate the size of Wayne manor was no small feat. He was health-minded in the kitchen as well. Jason still remembers the carefully constructed meal plan the man had him on for years; first to counteract his childhood malnourishment, then to fuel his high school athletic career.

"And... What is that exactly? Electrical cardioversion?"

"It's a simple procedure. We thread an electrode through the esophagus to the heart and deliver a small controlled shock to restore the heart to its normal beat. Essentially, it's the human version of turning it off, and then turning it back on again." Dr. Ontoveros smiles at his own joke. "It his a very high rate of success."

"And recovery? What's that going to be like?"

"Quick. We may keep him overnight for observation, but that's mostly to make sure there are no adverse reactions to any medications prescribed. Then he should be good to go home. I'd recommend he take it easy for the next week. No lifting anything over ten pounds."

Jason frowns. Alfred is not going to like that. He wonders how hard the old man will fight the doctor's orders. He would like to think Alfred has the most common sense, but he's having a hard time imagining Alfred letting a cleaning service into the manor. Wouldn't want anyone dusting that old grandfather clock in Bruce's office, now would he? The idea of Bruce and Dick surviving on cold cuts and doing their own laundry for a week is an entertaining one.

"All the details will be in his outgoing paperwork," Ontoveros assures, "Now, Jenny needs to get him prepped." The doctor's eyes flick to the door.

"Oh. Okay. I'll just." Jason lets himself be politely herded out of the room. Once in the hall he stares aimlessly at the closed door. He's unsure of what to do or where to go while Alfred is in surgery. He's wary of camping out in one of the waiting rooms, afraid of who he may run into there. He can't stay in the hall though, he thinks as he shifts out of the way staff and other visitors. He wishes he could just go home. But home is a flight away and he doubts Tim's generosity in providing a private jet will extend to helping him run away. He's stuck here. And he hates it here. He hates this hospital and its antiseptic smell and its fluorescent lights and the constant beep and whirr of equipment.

The air burns the inside of his nose. His eyes sting and water under the lights. Something presses firmly against his right leg and he obeys it, stumbling blindly along the corridor until he reaches a less densely populated area. He leans against the wall between the stairwell exit and the elevators and slides down to the floor, closing his eyes and dropping his head between his legs in an effort to will away the nausea stirring in his stomach. It's harder to breathe curled over his knees but he can't decide which is worse; breathing in the sickening scent of industrial strength cleaners that fills his mouth with thin watery saliva, or not breathing at all.

Florence. He needs Florence. He reaches out for her, but his fingertips only skim her fur before she's gone. Her warm comforting presence abandoning him.

"Flo," he chokes out.

His heart rate jacks up, pounding in his ears and behind his eyes. She's never done this before. She's never left his side, not since the early days when he still lived at home and she would fetch Alfred or Bruce, whoever was nearest...

"Jason?"

A blunt cold nose nudges his hands and his fingers clutch reflexively at the scruff behind it. He hiccups in relief.

"Oh Jaylad," a deep familiar voice rumbles at his side, "Come on, chum. Let's get you out of here."

A strong arm weaves around his shoulder and hauls him up to his feet. He trips over the threshold into the elevator but that steel support remains steady, doesn't let him fall. The dulcet chime as they move past floors rings wars incongruously in his ears with his labored breaths, but then they're moving again. Fresh air washes over his face; sweet and stimulating after the long journey up from the crushing depths of a pitch-black sea. He heaves in a breath.

"Almost there. There's a bench just up ahead."

He's stopped and turned, doll-like. Wooden slats bump the back of his knees and he crumples. Florence immediately settles between his legs, pushing as closely as possible against him in atonement for her momentary departure. He sucks in a second breath and then a third and a fourth, and when he no longer feels in danger of shaking into a thousand pieces, he leans forward and kisses the top of her head in benediction. He stays there, face pressed to her fur and listens to the world around him. A breeze ruffles through the leaves of the hedges around him. Birds peep back and forth. And in the distance, because this is _Gotham_ , after all, he hears the exchange of honks and curses between cars and pedestrians. 

He sighs and sits up. He recognizes this small patch of peace. They're in the reflection garden of the hospital complex. The little gothic revival chapel is to his right, and he knows if he were to look left there would be the arbor leading to the sculpture garden. There's a man standing there now. He's grateful it's just the one. Bruce has already seen him at his worst.

"Thanks for... y'know."

Bruce shakes his head and the movement catches in Jason's periphery. He allows his eyes to slide over. Bruce is looking at his shoes. Sneakers. He's dressed the way he does at home, away from all the cameras; in a soft black sweater and jeans. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, the only capitulation to the warm weather. 

"No need to thank me, Jay. You know I'm always happy to..." 

Bruce cuts himself off and Jason wonders if he's reliving the same memory. It was a month maybe since he'd come home from the hospital, he'd gotten out of bed to use the bathroom and in his sleep-hazed state forgotten he was short one limb. He remembers screaming up at Bruce from the floor. _Let go of me! I don't need your help! All you do is make things worse!_

Jason nods. The wail of an ambulance grows louder as it rolls across the parking lot into the receiving bay.

"I wasn't trying to interrupt, or corner you," Bruce explains. "I was just going to check in on Alfred and I saw Florence. She brought me to you."

Jason tugs her ears.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"About what?" Bruce looks up from his shoes and directly in his eyes. 

There's a groove on his forehead and a frown on his lips. His confusion is frank and something Jason would never have second guessed before finding out his dad was the Batman and had been lying to him literally since day one. Jason swallows.

"Sorry it's my fault you missed Alfred. They were prepping him for a," he searches his memory, "an _electrical_ _cardioversion._ To try and get his heat beating normally again. Apparently it's very routine," he parrots back what Dr. Ontoveros told him.

Bruce sighs, "You don't need to apologize Jason. It's okay."

Jason takes a moment to study his father in greater detail. His face is drawn and pale. The classic black sweater is rumpled and there's stubble on his jaw. It's been some time since his hair was acquainted with a comb. 

"You don't sound okay."

"I'm just tired. And worried. I would have liked to have seen him before he went in for surgery, but I'm glad you got to. And if I had to choose... I'd still be right here. With you."

Great. Now he feels like an asshole.

"He'll be okay," Jason murmurs in an odd desperation to reassure the older man.

"He will be," Bruce agrees. His lips twitch up into the ghost of a smile. "I'm fairly certain he'll outlive us all."

Jason snorts. "Probably."

Another ambulance roars by, lights sparking between the cars and the sparse decorative trees dotting the parking lot. He slides to one side of the bench and tics his head towards the empty space. Bruce raises his eyebrows at the invitation but sits. Their knees touch. Jason tries not to stare, but he's hyperaware of the scant inch of contact. He doesn't move away. Bruce's hand wanders over to rub Florence's nose, where its perched on Jason's lap. Her long pink tongue lolls over his fingers. 

"How are you?"

"D'ya mean like, physically? Or?" Jason points to his skull.

"Any way."

Jason shrugs. "Better now. I don't know. I guess I was so focused on Alfie, I kinda forgot where I was. And then when I realized..." He wrinkles his nose. "I think it was the smell that got me."

"Does it happen often?" Bruce asks quietly, pausing between every word like their being pulled from between his teeth.

"Nah. Haven't had one in like six months."

Bruce nods pensively and they fall back into awkward silence. Jason almost laughs. It's painfully obvious neither of them know how to bridge the conversational gap of a broken relationship. He wonders what would have happened if he'd actually answered one of Bruce's calls. Would it have been like this? Long minutes of phones pressed to their ears, listening to the other breathe, each waiting for the other to speak first?

"And physically?"

Jason startles a bit, surprised by Bruce's determination to revive the exchange. He brushes his thumb over his knee and winces. He hasn't slept or eaten since Barbara and Tim's call. He's exhausted, hungry, and his leg hurts.

"It always hurts after flying. It's been a long day."

"That it has. Do you need anything? Is there something I can get for you?" Bruce offers.

He shakes his head. "Thanks, but I'm good. I've got painkillers. They'll be enough until I can get to the hotel and take it off for a bit."

Bruce's head snaps up. "Hotel? You're not staying at home?"

Jason stops petting Florence with one hand and scrubs it over his face.

"Look, Da—Bruce, I—" He bites his tongue at the stricken look on Bruce's face. "I know how much you care about Alfie. And this must be really hard for you. And I'm thankful for your help back there and all... But I'm here for him. Not to fix things between us. Not to come home. M'sorry," the last word barely makes it past his throat as a hoarse whisper. 

Jason has only seen Bruce cry once in his entire life, from a bed in this very hospital five years ago. Bruce isn't crying now. He's gone rigid. His eyes are dry, but the lines around them are the same as that day back when. Guilt and anger churn in Jason's gut. The start of another headache drums threateningly inside his head. He squeezes his eyes shut trying to ward it off. The last thing he needs is to have another episode because Bruce looks _sad_.

A primeval guttural groan cuts through the rising tension, loud enough to agitate Florence. There's a strained chuckle from beside him.

"Well. If I can't convince you to stay with us, can I at least take you out for something to eat? Do you still like burgers?"

"Do I still like burgers?" Jason scoffs at the absurdity. "Yeah, I still fucking like burgers, Old Man. I moved out of Gotham, I didn't go vegan."

"Is that a 'yes' then? Because there's a diner across the street. There's the cafeteria here of course if you'd rather but you know how the food here—"

"Oh god! Don't remind me!" Jason makes a face.

Bruce stands. His mouth is pinched, but crooked to one side in a half-smile. He extends his hand out to Jason. Jason studies the broad palm and scarred knuckles. Thinks of how when he first came to live with Bruce, his own hands were too small to clasp the man's whole hand so he'd just hold on to his thumb. He looks up at Bruce.

"Yeah. I could go for a burger."

And takes his hand.


End file.
